Feathers of the Goddesses
by Quicksliver
Summary: Dean and Sam meet a couple girls with a certain familiarity with the supernatural, one has a secret, the other is her best friend. SAMOC DEANOC, rated for language At the moment More info inside.
1. The gig

Title: Feathers of the Goddesses  
Rating: T-M  
Author: Quicksliver  
Parings: Sam/OC, Dean/OC  
Summary: On a seemingly routine hunt gone wrong, Dean meets a couple of girls with a certian familiarity with the supernatural, Sam comes along later and immediately suspects them. One has a secret, the other is her best friend. Can the brothers trust these two as Dean insists, or will the Winchester instincts prevent them from the chance of a lifetime?  
A/N:Ok, so I know it's been done plenty times before, but this idea struck me while my parents were in Mexico and I was at my grandparents for the week. I was sick the entire time, and my grandma kept on trying to get me to eat and accusing me of being melodramatic. 'I'm a WRITER! It's my JOB!' I almost yelled, but I restrained myself. I wasn't being dramatic, believe me. Anyway, I was staring out the window when I saw A guy who looked horribly like Dean, with this girl from down the street. When I was staring fixedly at their backs, praying he would turn around, I saw she had a tattoo of a keyhole with wings sprouting from it. Immediately my muse, who has no respect for my physical pains, punched the creative side of my brain, and a chapter was born. Not the first chapter mind you, but one that'll probably be at the end. Then I abandoned it, and then my Beta/friend Kat inspired me, then I got ANOTHER beta who's doing a VERYYY good job of encouraging me. Please give this story a chance.

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The crescent moon shone high above Oak Hills Cemetery, casting shadowy reflections on the still lake of monuments and mausoleums that had stood for ages by its side. The quiet was unbroken, a mantle of silence to respect the dead, until the soft purr of a black car pulling up the drive filled the night. Headlights cast eerie shadows over the grass, invisible movements captured in bright light.

Dean Winchester had always privately believed that cemeteries were wasted on the dead. A place so neat and peaceful, given to people who couldn't appreciate it anymore then they could enjoy eating and breathing. Not that most people enjoyed those things enough daily, but still.

He drove the Impala up the winding path, stopping in front of the small church that oversaw everything. The steeples rose into the air, inlayed with carvings of life and hope in black iron. It was something ease the minds of people putting their loved ones into the ground.

He sat in the car and let her idle, watching the double doors of the church with typical Winchester caution. His sharp green eyes shone brilliantly when a light outside the chapel flicked on, reveling a man standing at the door. He nodded to Dean somberly, holding two flashlights and a shovel.

Dean opened the car door, swinging his leg out and ducking his head to keep it from hitting the roof. He didn't react to the silence, thinking of the shame he would feel if he was the one to break it. This job wasn't good news. A vengeful spirit in a place like this? Stepford South Carolina was pretty picturesque. Good people, great burgers, cute girls…

_'Ha ha…Stepford. Keep an eye out for robots Dean-O'_ A smile played over his face.

He walked around the back of his baby, opening the trunk pushing up the second flap, he propped it up with a crowbar and took out his sawed off rifle, a shovel, and a pack of rock salt. The rifle's familiar weight was comfortable in his hand, almost like an old friend. He briefly wondered if that's how crack addicts felt about their next hit, and smiled at this connection. That's right; he was a hunt-whore.

The eldest Winchester slammed the trunk shut, and the sound bounced around the eternal home of the dead with a seemingly endless echo. He winced, walking back over to the drivers' side of the car and turning it off, the headlights dimming automatically and leaving the two men in the muted darkness. He closed the door in much the same way as he had the trunk. A nearby crow cried out at the shock of being awakened.

He turned to the man with the flashlights, shrugging off his denim jacket and tossing it through the window of the impala so he was wearing the white t-shirt that he'd…Borrowed from old navy awhile back.

"So. Where we headed to reverend?" He asked softly, sticking the package of rock salt into his pocket and looking at the man like this was the most normal thing in the world, meeting in a cemetery to desecrate a grave in the middle of the night. Reverend Greg Miller, young for his profession and out of typical dress, shivered in the cold. He had light blonde hair and dark brown eyes, the face of a collage kid. He obviously worked out, his arms were thick and corded, and he seemed to be in a career unfit for him. But who was Dean to judge?

When Greg spoke it was with a soft voice, a typical tinge of southern drawl barely audible. He seemed shy to be doing something that was so wrong, against what he believed in.

"Not too far." He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and started walking up a well-kept driving path so people could get to the far-reaching graves, and Dean fallowed. "I'm surprised you came. I thought…" He paused and looked to the black asphalt, trudging towards a group of trees that seemed to be less cared for then the rest of the cemetery. The trees were tall and sparse, and looked pretty old.

"I'd call you crazy and hang up?" Dean smirked and looked ahead, catching up with the 'man of god' and walking side by side. Greg smiled sheepishly and nodded, his eyes still lowered. Dean glanced at him and chuckled. "Dude, I do this for a living. I was more surprised that a 'religious leader' was calling me about a spirit then about the fact it was two in the morning."

Rev. Miller laughed at that, and then stopped before the group of trees. Closer up, Dean noticed that interspersed with them were old graves. Some had writing so faded he could barely make out the inscriptions, while others were cracked and listing to the side, gray marble and slabs of granite.

"It's the old cemetery. Elm Street used to run right through here, but when they expanded the cemetery they demolished it. This little patch was Elm street cemetery." The younger man grinned in amusement, looking at Dean, who laughed slightly.

"Freddy Krueger eat your heart out." He said, a vision in his head of the infamous killer wandering around this little patch of land, his disfigured face turned up in a cunning smile. Dean loved that movie.

"So who exactly is this ghost? And how did you get my number?" Dean watched the reverend start walking again and fallowed slowly, watching his companion glance different tombstones as he searched for a particular one.

"His name was Frank Austin." Greg stopped before possibly the oldest tombstone there, and nodded. He placed the flashlights on the top of the cracked marble, and it was leaning over so far that the bright beams shone on the ground where, six feet under, the body of Frankie lay, ready to be salted and torched. The younger man shoved the tip of his shovel into the hard earth, dead grass surrounding the grave. Dean fallowed suit, and the two of them dug for a moment before the dark-eyed man continued. "He was a murderer, killed at least nine women. All of them were blonde, smart girls too. He was around about 10 years ago; apparently he committed suicide just before the cops caught him. They stuck him here because it was the oldest and most decrepit cemetery there was in the area." He paused and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then went back to digging with a grunt. "About a month ago, blonde girls started going missing from the university. All were top of their class; most were headed for big things. No one thought anything about it, until their bodies turned up in the river."

Dean cut in, grunting with effort as their hole got deeper. "And that's when you called me?"

Greg shook his head.

"Not quite. I did some research first and found out about good 'ole Frank. Then I called you. A friend of mine from Virginia told me about this guy. Someone who worked with stuff like this. I got a voice message that told me to call you." He grimaced and edged the shovel around a rock, then threw it over the lip of the grave.

"John Winchester?" Dean questioned, pausing and looking at him skeptically. Greg continued digging, beads of sweat running down his face a dripping of his nose. He had taken his jacket off and thrown it over beside a tree three dirt clods ago. They were sinking slowly deeper into the hole, their feet unsteady on the loosening soil.

"Yeah. Your dad I guess. His voicemail told me to call his son Dean if it was an emergency. So I did." He threw another shovel full over his shoulder, his quiet voice barely audible over the scraping of earth and their heavy breathing. "I was told you guys were the next best thing to your dad by my contact, so I went ahead and gave you a ring."

The smell of overturned earth was somehow comforting to Dean. He had grown up digging up bodies, killing and burning things, so smells that most people would fear made Dean feel…alive somehow. Earth, gunpowder, and most recently, blood. It scared him that the smell of blood set his nerve endings on fire, that his senses seemed to strengthen when he knew there was someone hurt.

There was a muffled thump on his next attempt to go deeper, and the two men looked at each other knowingly. Greg seemed to be shaking as they cleared off the last inch of dirt.

"Alright." Dean spoke softly, eyes fixed on the decaying box. "Looks like Frankie got a cheap-ass coffin." The laughter in his voice was muted, mostly because he knew the priest wouldn't appreciate his humor. He looked up and watched as Greg lifted himself out of the grave he that had just helped to dig. The guy was as pale as a ghost, and he grabbed the flashlights and helpfully shone them on the coffin. The dark outline of trees and statues was barely visible in the darkness.

In the dim yellow glow of the flashlights, the hunter leaned over and lifted the edge of the coffin. He flung it open, immediately regretting leaving his gun on the ground near the tombstone.

The coffin, lined with inexpensive green linen and rotted near the foot, was empty.

Dean's head shot up as he heard a short cry from above, and a moment later the flashlights were out. He swore loudly and scrambled out of the pit, his knees sinking into the packed clay. He pulled himself out and began desperately groping along Franks slab for the familiar feel of wooden handle and cold metal.

"Revered?" He called out quietly, accepting that no matter how much he searched, he wasn't going to find his gun. He swore again under his breath, and his eyes widened as he a coppery smell met him.

Immediately his eyes sharpened, and he crouched down next to the leaning headstone to make himself a smaller target. He sniffed again. Blood, he was sure of it. Probably poor Greg's. He hoped he was still alive; the reverend had been a cool guy.

Dean stayed crouched, praying internally that Sammy had decided not to take his own hunt and had fallowed him in a stolen minivan or something, anything but gone to Wisconsin to kill a black dog. The darkness was his friend in this case, hiding him from an attacker long enough to let him make a plan.

Or so he hoped.

There was a rustle behind him, and just as he turned around the rotted, gaping face of Frank Austin leaned close and smiled.

The last thing Dean Winchester remembered before passing out was a heavy tree branch swinging in a direct path to his temple, blinding pain, and then a sharp fire in his side.

He slumped to the side limply, blood trickling down his forehead and a bruise already forming around his eye as Frank stood above him, dead feet standing on the dead grass as the crow, re-awakened, called out chillingly into the night.


	2. Fighting the good fight

_Hello?_

Dean groaned softly... the pain in his head surging forward. He struggled to remember why exactly his head felt like it was split open. At first the only thing he could remember doing was arguing with Sammy on whether or not he should do the vengeful spirit gig alone. Sam had said he shouldn't, so Dean had offered him the Black Dog nine-to-five.

_Hello?!_

Yes! That was it! The vengeful spirit that hadn't been a vengeful spirit. The good looking (from a completely heterosexual point of view) and soft-spoken priest that had disappeared. The rock salt rifle that would do jack shit, even if he happened to get it back.

_HELLO?!_

Wow, the voice in his head was getting pretty fucking loud.

Dean slowly opened his eyes, his cheek still pressed against the cold earth and the soft smell of lavender surrounding him. His side protested painfully at the way he was laying on the ground. He blinked a few times to clear the unconsciousness from his gaze before he looked to the girl that was shaking him gently, realizing she was probably the one who had tried to scream him awake.

She was about Sam's age, and was kneeling in front of him with one hand on his shoulder and the other just under his ribs. She had brown hair that was just below shoulder length, tied back with a white ribbon. Her skin was softly tanned, but had an odd look to it, as though it only happened recently and she actually spent more time indoors. She had light copper colored eyes, and her face was a picture of concern and fear. At the same time Dean could see something in her eyes that he didn't quite recognize, but he knew he had seen it before on someone else's face.

He was on his side, right in front of the tombstone and inches from the edge of Frank's grave. He briefly wondered what would've happened if his unconscious form had rolled over and fallen in, and shuddered at the thought. She was on the more solid ground near his head, and was stretched awkwardly to shake him the way she was.

"Hey, are you ok?" The girl asked gently, staring at him with those light bronze eyes as he sluggishly lifted his head. "Did you know you're bleeding?" Her tone had an air of naiveté, and he gave her a look of contempt. It wasn't anything to do with her, but his head was bleeding, a zombie knocked him out, and the guy who had promised to pay him for disposing of the creature was missing. The day had started out bad and ended up worse.

"No, I didn't know that. I'm in horrible pain because everything's peaches and cream." He snapped, trying to sit up from his position on the ground.

Pain spiralled from his side into all his other extremities, and he cried out in shock. For a moment he thought the girl had done something, as her hand was right over where the pain was coming from, but he didn't have much time to think about that before her other hand was over his mouth, muffling his cry. After a bit more muffled complaining she removed it, and he glared at her indignantly.

"When I said 'Did you know you're bleeding' I meant 'Did you know you've been stabbed?'." She muttered "I _assumed_ you knew about the head wound." She lifted her hand off his ribs and held it out to the thin moonlight, showing him that it was covered in his blood. He looked down to see a large hole in his shirt, and then a very nasty looking gash parting his skin. He looked back at the woman and sighed slightly before speaking.

"Listen, I don't know what you're doing here-" She turned a pale pink, and for a moment he admired how attractive she was. "-But you have to leave." He sat up, gritting his teeth against the fresh wave of agony, and pressed his own hand down on the cut to stem the flow of blood. "Like, now."

She stood slowly and glared at him, and he put her at about 5'7 or 5'8. She was wearing a short sleeved, dark purple shirt with a jean jacket and black, baggy jeans with sequined designs spiralling up her legs. She was wearing flat-sole runners and the typical pentagram necklace of new-age woman who thought it was for summoning and had no idea it was a protection symbol. Her hair shone lightly in the moonlight and her eyes turned brilliant amber when light hit them in just the right way.

"No, you listen bud. I'm here to visit my great aunt-" She glanced at the headstone next to his "-Rose." She bowed her head and made a big show of wiping a tear from her eye. "Poor, poor Aunt Rose." She whispered, her voice hitching.

Dean looked at the headstone and read the engraved inscription, then burst into laughter.

"So your great aunt rose died in 1864 and was five years old?" He grinned at his 'Rescuer', eyes peeled for a certain mass-murder-turned-zombie.

She raised her head and re-read the inscription.

"Great-great-great-great-many more greats aunt." She muttered hastily. "From Cleveland." Dean shook his head and tried to stand, getting up and leaning against the tombstone for support.

Suddenly the tree branch from the earlier attack came into his line of sight, raised right above the woman's head. Dean opened his mouth to shout a warning that he already knew was too late, but was shocked into silence in the next instant.

The lithe girl raised her head sharply, staring straight at Dean and ducking just as the limb swung at her head. It grazed by her left ear as she dropped down; reveling Frank's decaying and rancid body. His gaping eye sockets widened in something like surprise before he found himself lying on the ground, his legs having been swept nicely from under him.

He took this opportunity to study the attacker, taking in the fact that he had no eyes or teeth. His hair was long and black, hanging in scraggly wisps from his scalp. His skin was grey and-The only way to really describe it was hanging- from his bones. He had no real muscles anymore. There were the remains of his burial clothes around his waist (thank god) but you could literally see through the man's chest courtesy of a ragged hole that took up most of his midriff.

Dean watched in amazement as Frank stood and swung at this girl, who had stood up into a relaxed but very visible martial arts stance. She blocked the attack and countered by grabbing his clammy arm, the skin swaying from his bone disturbingly in layers, and pulling him into a forceful front kick. His brittle ribs cracked loudly, but he showed no sign of pain.

The un-dead serial killer grabbed her hair and punched her in the face, and she gave a short cry. The sound of pain now had the zombie in a frenzy, and long strings of glittering, foamy spit hung down from his mouth as he continued to hit her.

Dean tried to push off the tombstone to help her, but fell back with a gasp as nausea swept over him. He could barely stand, let alone help the attractive girl with the kick ass karate skills.

Blood ran down her face in thin rivers, and she looked as if she was about to pass out. Then, suddenly, she raised her hand to chest height and screamed out some short words in what sounded like Latin.

There was a flash of green incandescent light, and Frank's body was hurled into the air by some seemingly invisible force. The woman fell to her knees and swayed from side to side; looking pale and exhausted, before the decomposing body fell back to earth with a bone-shattering thud about ten feet behind his now for sure rescuer. Dean slumped against the trunk of a tree, staring at her.

"Who are you?" He suddenly remembered where he had seen the look in her eyes; it was one he had seen on the faces of hunters everywhere. Knowledge of what they were fighting, no matter how hard. She was slowly crawling over to him, grass staining her knees green even though most of it was dead, and when she got to him she collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily.

"Adina, Adina Montgomery." She looked up at him from her position on the ground, then raised her head to look at Frank Austin's body.

"Shit." She muttered, her head dropping back to the ground limply. He looked in Frank's direction and watched as he slowly sat up, turning his gaping eyes towards them.

"Sahara!" Adina called loudly, eyes still closed. "Some help would be nice!"

Dean stared at her briefly, wondering if she was insane.

"Alright, alright, but only because you asked so nicely." Another, distinctly female voice rang through the night, and seconds later a young woman, presumably Sahara, landed quietly behind Frank, who was now almost standing.

There was a blur of motion, (her momentum from the jump propelled a side kick very nicely) and Dean watched Frank stumble towards them helplessly, pushed by her violence. His arms pinwheeled in an almost comic way as he tried to regain his balance.

Cavernous eyes stared at the hunters before them almost pleadingly, and Dean casually flipped his middle finger up in distaste. He pressed his other hand a bit tighter to his chest, pain radiating up his body in spirals.

The man fell forewords into his own grave, and Dean caught a brief glance of the woman who'd kicked the zombie hard enough to send him rolling. The only thing he was sure of was that she had brown hair tied in a messy bun, and was wearing sunglasses. She then jumped into the grave with a soft thump. There was a sick squelching noise and a muffled scream, the sounds of struggle, and then silence. Except for Adina and Dean's heavy breathing.

There was a long pause, and then the girl looked at him for a second and rolled over, letting her eyes peek over the side of the hole timidly.

A gray, mottled hand shot up from inside the dark crypt, moving in a very snake-like way, and she screamed loudly, scrabbling back from the lip of the grave and shuddering in disgust and fear.

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**TBC**


	3. Adina and Sahara, Wonder Twins

_A gray, mottled hand shot up from inside the dark crypt, and she screamed loudly while scrabbling back from the lip of the grave and shuddering._

* * *

"Glad you decided to give me a hand Adina." The same voice from before called out, and Dean watched the zombie hand wave slightly. "I could use some help here!" He laughed slightly when he saw another, significantly less rotted hand, silver-tipped nails and all, holding the dismembered forearm.

Dean stood slowly, hand still on his wound, and reached his fingers down far enough to clasp his unoccupied hand around hers. He braced himself against the ground and pulled, surprised at how light she was.

She climbed up easily with his help, standing elegantly and brushing her hands off on her knees after letting go of Dean's hand. She walked right past him, not even thanking him for helping, and straight to her friend.

She held out a hand and Adina grabbed it, stumbling as she was pulled to her feet. She was still pale, but she looked less tired overall. Adina punched the other brunette in the shoulder angrily, probably for pulling the trick with the hand. The rotted limb was lying on the ground next to them. Dean watched, slumped over the headstone, as the girls talked quietly to themselves while occasionally looking over at him. The one called Sahara nodded at her friend and turned around, looking him up and down.

She took in his hunched posture, the blood staining his light grey shirt, the grime on his face and the scarlet rivers running from his head wound. At the same time, he took in her high cheekbones, bulky sunglasses that hid practically half her face in plastic shadow, long shapely legs and the sensible clothes she wore. A black cropped t-shirt and blue jeans. The bulk of an ankle holster was barely visible under the blue denim, and he raised and eyebrow before tapping it with the toe of his 'biker boot'. There was a soft clunk of metal on metal, and he grinned at her.

His eyes were fixed on her face as he spoke, and his glee outshined his pain for a brief moment. "Isn't that a bit…Oh I dunno… Dumb? I mean how fast would you have to move-"

He stopped, his eyes slowly focusing , cross eyed, on the gun barrel that rested against his forehead and then the girl who was holding it. There was a smirk on her face that rivalled one of his.

He smiled sheepishly. "Earlier statement retracted."

She lowered the gun, still smiling smugly, and Dean was suddenly hit with a spike of pain that made him double over. He slid down the tree behind him, leaned his head back and tried his best to breathe deeply through clenched teeth. He shut his eyes tightly to hold back tears of pain. _'Dude, so not happening in front of two hot chicks. No Way.' _But this hurt, it was like…

Dean pulled his hand off the broken skin with a rather gross squish, pulled his shirt up so he could see better, and grabbed one of the flashlights that Greg had brought. He pressed the button down, and found his delusions of 'Not to bad' shattered in the wide beam.

The skin around the gash was red and angry, coated in a thick layer of scarlet. The blood already had the thick copper smell of drying, the cut was embedded with dirt and a few twigs. But that wasn't what worried him.

Also seeping from the wound, thick and slow, was a black substance that reminded him of solidifying tar, full of soft lumps. It was the consistency of the slime he had made in grade three, heavy and quite amusing, but there was nothing funny about anything like that coming out of a cut. Dean looked up at the girls, and had to catch his breath when he saw what Sahara looked like.

She had taken her sunglasses off, and it revealed a thin, pert nose and a light coat of freckles. Her skin was tanned and natural, no makeup to be seen, but the thing that really drew him in were her eyes.

They were blue, light around the edges and darker as they got closer to her pupils, but there were patches of grey inside them, different tones and shapes. He automatically thought of a wolf.

Dean looked back down at his gash, mind reeling. This wasn't good. He glanced back up only to find wolf-girl was on her knees before him, while Adina was picking up a very familiar rifle and checking to see if it was loaded. She took the small rock-salt mini-missiles out and tossed them on the ground, reaching into her own pocket and loading it with real bullets from inside her pocket. She cocked it deftly.

"Stay here with macho-man. I'm going to look for that guy that ran off." She started walking away, and the two of them watched her waltz off into the darkness.

"Stupid." The woman in front of him muttered, then turned her head and started to examine his wound. "Should've taken the fucking flashlight." She abruptly poked a finger into his cut, and he gave a strangled cry.

"Care to warn me next time?" He hissed, leaning his head back again and ignoring the fact that her finger was rooting around inside of him. "I mean, no offence Sara, but that might be a bit of courtesy."

There was a _shuck_ sound as she removed her finger from the cut, like when your boot sinks into a mud puddle and you just pulled it out. And she glared at him.

"_Sahara._"She stabbed her finger back in, this time adding her middle finger for good measure. He gasped, and she continued to search through his muscle for…whatever she was looking for. "By the way, I'm about to put two fingers inside you." she said, a tad unnecessarily.

"Thanks for the warning." He muttered, closing his eyes and focusing on...anything but what she was doing.

There was a brief pause in movement, and he heard her give a noise of triumph. She pulled violently and he cried out again, swearing in Latin. He opened his eyes to see two silver-tipped and bloody fingers holding a small piece of metal between them.

It was a rough triangular shape, two sides clean cut and filed, and one jagged, as if snapped off. A thin stream of black, running from the point, cut through the mixed red and silver, and Dean blinked. _'Unholy object.'_ He thought to himself _'Cute. For a dead guy he sure had a sense of humor' _

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of cloth, white and spotted with what looked a lot like blood, and carefully wrapped the piece of steel in it. She tucked it away in her back pocket and smiled at him.

"Sweet. Gonna have to take a look at that."

"Yeah, that's nice Sara-" He yanked his shirt down and looked up when he was cut off.

"_Sahara_." Her lips were pursed, and he wondered if she knew how endearing it was.

"-Whatever. Like I said, that's nice and all, but I've got to go." He made a great effort, and managed to lift himself from the grass and to his own two feet. He smiled winningly at her, "Maybe we can meet up sometime."

She stared at him. "Sooner then you think buddie boy. You're not gonna get three steps." She crossed her arms, cocking her head to the side with a smile.

"Sure. You keep thinking that." He nodded to her, a patronizing look on his face. He started walking…

…And two steps later was flat on his face, out like a light.

Sahara Jackson tapped her fingers impatiently against the side of her arm, still smirking, and squatted down next to this new developments' prone form. She rolled him onto his back and studied his face, taking note of the strong jaw and long eyelashes. She only looked up when there was a soft sound behind her.

Adina, her close friend and a kick-ass magic user, strode over to stand next to her. Greg Miller was at her side, cradling his arm and letting his eyes flicker around him nervously.

"Poisoned?" She asked quietly, amused. Sahara nodded and used her legs to push up from the ground smoothly, wiping a bit of blood off her hand and onto her jeans.

"Yeah. Didn't even see it coming." She glanced at the priest, who was pressing his back against the same old oak tree Dean had leaned on before. His eyes were shifting from shadowy area to shadowy area, his breath hitched in fear. "Broken arm and scared out of his wits?" she asked, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the man

"Yep." Adina dropped the rifle, picking up an abandoned spade that the men had brought from nearby he foot and plunging it into the mound of dirt next to the open grave. The rusted metal was caked in damp earth already, and long purple worms wiggled pathetically in their brown sanctuary as she tossed the heaping mini-pile back where it came from.

"I win." Sahara beamed, a look that most men found very alluring. "Mine's a hunter, cute, and poisoned." Her grin was mocking as she bent over and lifted Dean's limp form, pulling him so one of his arms was over her shoulder; she had his jacket in her other hand, the blue denim clenched tightly in her fist. Adina watched, looking disappointed. "Plus he has a kick ass car. Impala '67 I think." Her knees shook under his weight, and she swore. "Someone should lay off the cupcakes."

"But mine's nearly in hysterics!" Adina gestured to Greg, who squeaked and tried to meld his body into the tree. "That's got to count for something!" she threw a few more shovelfuls of dirt into the hole, and then looked at her friend. "Is there a reason you're still standing there and not helping?"

Sahara's brow furrowed, and she took an experimental step forwards. It was when Dean's feet dragged limply behind her that she knew he wasn't going to be helping anytime soon. She dragged Dean over to the priest, who was still effectively freaking out, reared back her hand and slapped him.

The blow wasn't hard, but it made a sound that was akin to a breaking a dry branch. Greg blinked rapidly, staring at her.

"Listen, I know your arm is broken and all, but I need your help." Sahara looked at him and smiled when sense seemed to return to him and he relaxed visibly.

"Thank you." He muttered, pushing off the tree and glancing at Dean's prone and very uncomfortable looking body. "I'd be happy to help, but unfortunately heavy lifting isn't much of an option at the moment." He was cradling his broken left arm to his chest, blood trickling from his lip and staining his green shirt.

She chuckled at the phrase 'heavy lifting', pulling Dean a bit closer and propping him on one shoulder.

"Ok, well... Can you give me permission to drive my car in here?" She smiled sunnily at him, and even thought Greg was a man of God, he wasn't completely immune to 'sins of the flesh'. He turned bright red at the very thought and nodded hastily, watching as she sighed in relief and dropped Dean to the ground like a sack of flour.

"Thank god." She grabbed a discarded flashlight and disappeared in the inky blackness of night, the sun must've started rising by now, but the trees blocked light very well.

Minutes later, after listening to nothing but Adina's toils in filling in Frank's tomb and the soft call of larks welcoming the approaching daylight, the relative quiet was shattered by the powerful roar of a car engine. It grew steadily closer, and Greg watched the driving path to his right intently.

A cherry- red 1977 Ford Mustang II turned the bend and manoeuvred through the trees, some of them growing on the very edges of the decrepit driving path. Greg decided right then and there that he would take great pains to restore this area, if for no other reason then because 'next' time this happened his rescuers might not be such good drivers.

She eased the vintage car to a stop, stepping out and leaving the car to idle in park. It was a classic, the typical white stripe of a mustang replaced with metallic blue, and the shine of blocked moonlight on the car created a stunning effect. It was polished to perfection. Greg, a closet car buff, gawked at it. Just as he had secretly done to Dean's car when it had first pulled up the drive. He suddenly thought of how long ago that had been. It seemed like days.

The headlights illuminated her as she walked over to her friend, who had filled in quite a bit of the hole. Sahara snagged what looked like his shovel from the ground, placed her foot on the flat top and stomped into the loose earth.

Meanwhile, Greg himself was feeling bad for making the girls do all the work. He pushed off the tree with his good arm, figuring he could at least help Dean. It was, after all, his fault the young man was in this mess to begin with.

He reached down and took hold of the hunter's left hand, pain from his arm screaming at him to stop. He was pretty fit, and managed to drag Winchester to the side of the car.

He opened the back passenger door, the cold metal under his fingers making him shiver. It swung open without a sound, perfectly oiled, and he smiled. He was so distracted with the metallic finish of the car that he didn't notice a shadow behind him.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder and he cried out with a start, whirling around fast enough to jostle his arm.

Slivers of fire shot up his arm, making him dizzy with pain. He internally wished he had pursued a less painful profession, like Hollywood stuntman. Priesthood wasn't working out. Sure, he loved God, believed in him unwaveringly, but still… Zombies? What the heck!?

He fell to his knees next to a motionless Dean, fear overpowering him before he realized it was the younger looking of the two girls, Adina. She looked at him with wide eyes as he struggled to catch his breath, both from the pain he was feeling and the scare he had just received. Her fingers were covered in dirt, smears of grime stained her nose, and she smiled at him.

"I'm sorry if I scared you father." She whispered, opening the trunk and tossing a shovel into it. She looked at the situation, and walked around the other side of the mustang. She opened the opposite door and crawled over the seats, then grabbed Dean under the arms and pulled. His torso slid easily on the soft cream leather, and seconds later only his legs were out of the car.

In this manner she managed to get him into the back seat without much trouble, no lifting involved. Meanwhile, Sahara had helped him up and offered him the passenger side.

He climbed in, still holding his awkwardly twisted arm, and she shut the door with a slam behind him. As he watched, the two women stood in front of the car, in plain view from his spot behind the windshield, and talked. The one with neon blue streaks in her hair and the bulky sunglasses resting on top of her head reached into the pocket of her jeans and tossed a set of keys to her friend, who caught them with ease and rounded the car to the driver's side.

As Greg watched, the girl with the keys slid into the seat beside him and slammed the door shut, not that she needed to. He looked over at where this adventure began and saw the grave was filled in, the top smoothed over neatly. He couldn't tare his eyes off the spot, looking so serene and innocent. And even when the car started and pulled away down the drive he found himself staring over his shoulder, past the seemingly lifeless form of the hunter behind him in the backseat to the small group of rapidly receding trees. He only turned his head when a black car pulled up next to them, purring softly in the night, exhaust pouring from its tailpipe in a smouldering white waterfall. Behind the wheel was the other girl, who he hadn't even wondered about when they drove away without her.

She winked at him and lowered her sunglasses over her eyes, revving the engine with relish and letting smoke rise from her tires in a spectacular burnout. He watched the tail lights turn from specks of fire, to embers, and finally to fireflies as the car disappeared down the freeway into the darknees.

About fifteen minutes later he was fast asleep, his physical pain and mental confusion exhausting him.


	4. An Ominous duo

Washington D.C.  
3:00Am  
Morty's Pub.

She languished in the shadows, seated at an antique wooden table. Although she strongly suspected it was a well-made rosewood fake, she didn't nit pick. Not today, on a day that would be so important.

The bar she had chosen was out of the way, dingy and secluded, so she was relatively alone. Besides the drunken man on shore leave and the bartender, as well as a few men who looked one step above homeless, she was by herself, and the only woman in the room. She sipped her whiskey, feeling it burn down her throat and smiling for a moment at the sensation.

The drunken man who'd been eyeing her lewdly stumbled in her direction from his barstool, yet she pretended not to notice. He pulled out a chair from the table next to hers and plunked down next to her, his beer sloshing around and spilling over the lip of his mug. He was an ugly brute, short, stumpy and bearded. Alcohol wafted on his breath when he spoke, the pallor of his skin was a sickly yellow, which reminded her of a man she'd seen one day in Africa who had horrible leprosy. He'd been a pathetic specimen, and she had promptly put him out of his pointless, mortal misery. He'd given her a headache. Not that this man was much better, with his cocky attitude and pungent odour.

"You looking for a good time gorgeous? Cause Spencer can deliver!" He leaned closer to her, studying her raven-black hair, light hazel eyes and pale skin with glazed interest and thinly hidden perversion. She had on a typical outfit of an early twenty year old, tight blue jeans and a black halter-top that nicely complimented her flat stomach and visible curves. She was well toned and stunning to look at, and she knew it well. Her blood-red lips attracted particular attention.

He swayed in his seat, placing a hand on her knee before slowly moving it up her thigh. Her heart shaped face and high cheekbones betrayed her, filling with disgust as her eyes flicked down to his stumpy hand. Whisky brown eyes darkened in a flash, black as night, but the man before her was too wasted to notice. Her hand caressed Spencer's for a moment, before finely manicured fingers grabbed short fat ones and twisted them deftly backwards, breaking three.

Spencer screamed in pain, falling off his chair and rolling on the dirty hardwood floor. His dark, matted hair caught more then a few dust bunnies as he sobbed, staring up at the raven haired woman that had mutely gone back to her drink. She looked down on Spencer, which was the way she preferred to look at men, and gave a rare smirk.

"Not interested."

She flipped open her deep red phone and dialled a familiar number as she walked to the bar and dropped a few bills down on the varnished wood.. Her hips swayed with every step, and the other trashed men watched with mild interest as Spencer desperately tried to climb onto the chair she'd left behind, pain etched into his sagging features.

When she got out into the cold night she raised the phone to her ear, her expression that of a bored collage student, instead that of a woman who'd just broken three fingers and left the bartender with a great story.

She tapped her foot lightly, not in impatience but in the spirit of acting. On the other end of the line there was a ring.

The dirty sides of buildings and broken down cars were her only witnesses. There were fires burning bright orange along the street, a few homeless people standing by them, their breath floating into the air in insignificant clouds alongside the smoke for their makeshift radiators as they warmed themselves. She scanned them impassively, only interested in people who would be a threat for her. Her scarlet lips were pursed slightly.

Finally the phone was picked up.

"Hello?" An overly chipper, distinctly female voice assaulted her ears, and yet she smiled. A rare, true smile, that was a terrible thing to behold on a face so striking. Careful and cunning, evil to its very root.

"Zana." Her voice was silk, as smooth and as uninhibited as polished stone.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then the voice of her 'sister' came to her.

"Sorcha. About time you called."

"Did you find them?" She didn't bother with pleasantries, didn't believe in them. Her eyes were fixed on the dancing flames from the nearest barrel.

"Hello to you too." The line crackled with static, and Sorcha stepped to the side. The snapping and fuzzy sounds stopped abruptly. Her patience was wearing thin.

"Just answer me Zana."

"Well, the eldest is in South Carolina." Came the reply, and she felt vague surprise. Her clear eyes widened by a millimetre.

"And the one we need?"

"I'm assuming the same place, but they haven't been seen." There was a pause, and the sound of shuffling papers. "Not by my sources anyway. Did you find Desiree?"

"No. She didn't show."

"Well, she'll turn up. We'd know if she'd been exorcised." Calm and collected was how her friend seemed, but she knew better. "Besides, we've got work to do."

The beautiful woman nodded in the dark slums of Washington, her cruel smile returning to the flawless face. Her eyes had gone back to black, and the firelight reflected in them like a shimmering prism, red and orange sinking into translucent flickers of colour.

"They won't live past the month."

* * *

Dean Winchester didn't have that blissful after-sleep amnesia that he had read about in true-life accounts from random trauma books, and that he himself had experienced once or twice when he woke after a hunt. Instead he had the extreme feeling that he was royally, truly, and completely screwed. Two women who he didn't know had either A) Taken him to a hospital, where he would be arrested shortly after getting fixed up. B)Taken him to their house, (Which under any other circumstances he would been very pleased with) and decided to figure out who exactly he was, Or C) Left him lying on the ground next to Frank's re-dug grave.

He wasn't cold, and he was fairly certain he was lying in a bed and not on grass. So that ruled out C.

His wrists were tied with what felt like leather straps to the sides of the rather cushy bed he was lying on. That didn't actually rule out anything. If he had been dropped on his ass next to a hospital then they would know who he is by now, and probably restrain him to keep him from killing someone/escaping/Killing himself.

He chuckled to himself, imagining Henrickson's face as Dean, hysterical, waved a hypodermic needle around in the air of a white room, wearing the usual hospital track pants and baggy shirt, preparing to kill himself to avoid going back to prison. _'No, I won't go back there. I CAN'T GO BACK INSIDE YOU HEAR ME?! I WON'T!'_ Meanwhile a timid Henrickson would be babbling in a corner, fearing for his own life.

"He's a colourful guy, isn't he?" A voice asked, from what sounded like another room.

He briefly toyed with opening his eyes, but discarded the idea when the second voice answered, much closer. Like, next to his bed.

"Oh yeah, did you read the pile? Phil Rudd, Vincent Damon Furnier, Scott Spektor, Michael Von Bovi, Rudy Sarzo." There was the click of plastic on plastic after each name; amusement rang through the woman's tone. Almost like she recognized the titles.

"Oh, my favourite has to be Andrew Oldham." Was the pleased answer. "And Look at what the ID's are for! FBI, Homeland insurance, _Animal control_? Honestly, how stupid are police officers these days?"

"Pretty stupid. There's one here for secret service. Apparently he covers the president when he's not catching stray dogs and paying people's life insurance policies."

Dean's eyes snapped open, and he gave a groan as light flooded his corneas and blinded him. His wrists strained the worn leather that bound them as he instinctively went to cover his eyes, and he waited for them to adjust.

"Hey Sar, he's awake."

When the light faded he blinked a few times, then stared to his right. The first girl he'd met, Adina, was sitting with her feet up on the edge of the bed, the small amount of weight creating a barely visible dent in the soft white comforter. He was above the sheets, strapped to the four-poster bed and…. Shirtless?

"Leather? Ooh, kinky." He grinned wolfishly at the girl next to him. "This is a dream come true. Did Sammy set this up for my birthday?" The girl didn't look impressed. "I mean sure, it's a little early, 8 months or so… But it's a nice gesture."

Her deep brown eyes were amused yet inquisitive, and she was thumbing through a stack of plastic cards. His entire collection of ID's, he had to assume. She had changed her clothes, and was wearing a Hawaiian style strapless sundress of bright yellow and white. She looked good, especially with her dark hair out of a ponytail and tumbling down her bare shoulders. Her long, well-toned legs were crossed in a way so ladylike that he almost forgot the ass-kicking she had gotten the night before. There were subtle reminders, like the dried blood that peeked out beneath her nose and the light bruising around her right eye. Otherwise she looked just as naïve, just as fresh-faced as the first time he laid eyes on her.

He looked around the room, which had horrible orange paint that was peeling and faded. There was a low white dressing table across the room from the bed; It looked too heavy to throw if he had to, but he might be able to pull a fake out and make them hit it hard enough to hurt or distract them. There was a mirror on the night table next to him which was a ghastly pale red colour, spotted with brown around the edges of the glass.

He mentally slapped himself in the face for ever using the word 'Ghastly'.

The place basically didn't look very lived in, and he guessed a motel room. The tell-tale signs of a pair of motel-hoppers were all there, the fast food cartons, paperwork on the floor and the unmade bed next to him gave the hunter a strange sense of familiarity that he knew wasn't a good idea. He fought it back and smirked at the girl, his eyebrows raised. She had paused in flicking through the ID to stare at his chest, and hadn't pulled her gaze from it since.

"Like what you see?" He shifted his weight, muscles rippling under taunt skin, and she leered at him.

"I've got better in my basement." She winked at him and went back to her discs.

He stared at her in disbelief, and was still in shock when the girl that had saved both of their asses strode in. Her hair was still in a bun, but looked damp, small, smimmering beads of moisture ran down her face. Apparently she'd just gotten out of the shower. He caught a glimpse of ice blue eyes before black and bulky 'Paris-Hilton-just-got-out-of-jail-and-is-hiding-her-shame-behind-gucci' sunglasses hid them.

"Oh look, it's sleeping beauty." She muttered, seemingly unimpressed. She had on a ragged pair of jeans, baggy all the way through and comfortable looking, a pair of green converse sneakers and a red shirt with beaded designs along the neck and spiralling up from the bottom. The fabric was darker and damp in places, mainly around her neck and on her chest.

"Yeah, 'cause I haven't heard that one before." He smirked, feeling superior.

She smiled pleasantly, ambled over, and he barely had time to widen his eyes before the back of her hand connected with his cheekbone hard enough for him to see spots.

"Now. You're going to tell me what the hell you were doing at our job, and your gonna tell me before I take out my crowbar." Her smile was still there, unwavering, but the look in her eyes was murderous. Dean had no wish to be on the receiving end of another blow, especially when he was pretty sure his side was bleeding again.

"I was working it." He muttered, eyes fixed on the budding stain of scarlet on otherwise pristine white cloth. Bending his neck like that was uncomfortable, but he did want to keep track. He glanced up at the first girl, who was staring as well, her expression a facade of anxiousness

"Sahara." The girl said, standing up and dropping his many artificial identities on the ground.

The other girl rounded the bed, saw the blood and reacted consequently.

"Sonofabitch!"

He chuckled while Adina started to take off the bandages, then stopped. Why was he feeling dizzy all the sudden?

"Yeah, that's right. Be a smartass." Sahara tossed some towels over to her friend, who was working on his wound furiously. "When the only thing standing between you and the grim reaper is Adina and Sahara, hunters extraordinaire."

Dean watched with a giddy gaze while the bloody bandages were replaced with a stack of gauze and a new cover. "Actually I met a reaper once… Not a bad guy… Way too into vengeance and stuff though."

"Whatever."

"Thanks Sarma."

"It's _Sahara_." She was pissed.

Out of the blue there was a shrill ringing in his ear, so he shook his head to dislodge it. It happened again, and again and-

Oh, it was his cell phone.

He smirked when Sahara reached into his pants pocket and pulled it out, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. She pursed her lips like she had just seen something nauseating and flipped it open, offering it to Adina.

The other girl lifted her blood-soaked hands and a glared, and the two girls went though a series of silent and frantic movements. Obviously they were trying to decide who would talk to the person on the other line, who was saying 'Hello' over and over again and asking for Dean.

Finally, Sahara put the phone to her ear.

"Hello, you've reached Dean Winchester's phone."

Dean blinked. He didn't have his proper ID in his wallet, so how'd she known his name?

Sam blinked in surprise when a woman answered his brother's phone, giving a proper name for his brother. He must've liked this girl to give a real name, instead of one ridiculous stage name or another

"Uh…Hi. Can I please talk to Dean?"

"Um…" There was a break of static, "He's a bit busy right now."

"Well I'm sure you're having a lot of fun, but this is kinda urgent." He fixed his long hair in the dirty mirror of his cheap bathroom, drawing his eyebrows together to see his expression. He'd really have to work on his 'I'm not amazed' look.

"Well…Alright Sam."

He opened his mouth to ask how she knew his name, but the sound of the speaker hitting something solid cut him off abruptly. He could her hushed mumbling from far away, and then a crackle of breath as his brother came answered the phone. What the youngest Winchester didn't know was that the phone was actually being held up to his brother's ear by and blood-soaked hand, and that he was tied to a bed in the middle of god-knows where.

"Hey Sammy, how's Wisconsin?" Dean smiled up at the Adina, who shrugged while Sahara wiped off the dried blood around his new bandages.

"Are you in the middle of something I don't want to know about, or am I misreading things?" Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh no, I think you'd really like to hear about this."

"Right." His brother's voice was laced with sarcasm. "Anyway, Black dog was a bust. Turned out it was a couple kids and their Newfoundlander playing pranks. How was the spirit?"

"Painful," Dean mumbled "But doable."

"Sounds fun."

"A riot. Listen, Sammy. I've been kidnapped by-"

Adina slammed the phone shut, and seven states away Dean's worried brother started yelling 'WHAT?' at a solemn dial tone.

Another harsh backhand met his jaw, connecting with the ease of an expert.

"You are stupid, aren't you?" He stared at his two captors, smiling when Adina stomped off to wash her hands.

"Nah, but he'd have known something was wrong eventually." Dean stretched and made himself comfortable, staring at Sahara's face arrogantly. Truthfully, he was a bit worried. These girls knew his full name, had all his fake ID's, and were evidently well trained hunters. Why they'd kept him here was a mystery to him. He watched her walk away, then decided to give her a last little push.

"Besides Sara, Sammy's one of the best. He'll have me out of here in no time."

She paused, sneakered feet squishing into the plush carpet. Her shoulders were tense, her fists clenched.

She slowly turned around on the spot, walked over, and stood next to the bed. Her face lowered so it was inches from his and her sunglasses were on the bride of her nose, showing a sliver of silver-blue eyes. He shivered. They were homicidal.

"My name," his hostage taker whispered "Is Sahara, Sa-Har-Ah. And I swear to god if you call me Sara, or Suma, or anything else but my name one more time; I will chop you into pieces, put you into a blender and feed you to a windego as a Winchester milkshake. I'll even put hot sauce in there just for fun." She smiled at the proposal, and her smile was almost as disturbing as the look in that little patch of blue he could make out.

"I don't care what the hell you know about yellow eyes. I will kill you, and I will enjoy it."

Dean pulled his eyes from her chest for a second, looking sharply at her.

"You know about-"

She laughed, a glowing, radiant sound that he found himself wanting to hear again, and levelled herself to her regular height.

"Who doesn't these days?"

And with that ominous statement passed from her lips, she turned around and walked into the bathroom. Presumably to talk to her accomplice.

Dean took the time to plot his escape, staring around at the room to get his bearings a bit better. He took a mental stock.

'_Okay. So my weapons are on the coffee table five feet from me, which, judging by the marks on the carpet, was moved when I got here. They found everything in my clothes, and apparently the knife in my boot. They know my real name, most of my aliases, and kept anything sharp at least six feet away. Smart move, anything under four I might've gotten... This isn't their first time at the rodeo.'_ He looked for windows, extra exits, anything that could get him out of here. _'No windows, no exits besides the front one. So even if I tried to get out of here tonight I'd have to get myself out of these straps, get my weapons, because there's no way I'm leaving those behind, find my car keys if they have them, which they might not, walk by both their beds and the bathroom, open the rusty deadbolts and run as fast as I possibly can with a probable concussion and a cursed wound. And that's assuming that one of them isn't going to stay up all night and keep an eye on me.'_

"Great." Dean muttered to the air, desperately hoping Sammy was on his way.

* * *

Dean's Aliases (All are classic rock References)

Phil Rudd-Former drummer of AC/DC.  
Vincent Damon Furnier- Alice Cooper's birth name.  
Scott Spektor- Bon Scott was lead vocalist of The Spektors.  
Michael Von Bovi-Bon Jovi.  
Rudy Sarzo-Bassist for Ozzy Osborne's touring band in the late 1970's.  
Andrew Oldham- Andrew Loog Oldham was the manager of the rolling stones in the 1960's.

Welcome, 2008! This is my welcoming post. HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL YOU LOVELY PEOPLE! -Free Drinks for all-


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